


running across the meadow

by ishybishy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishybishy/pseuds/ishybishy
Summary: And his best smile, too. Crooked and red, almost too boyish for a man his age. That’s it. There it is. The smile that got Patrick wondering if Heaven was a feeling, not a place.





	running across the meadow

“You’re a fuckin’ leech” Jonny mutters. Patrick watches him frown at his own reflection. His fingers scratch at the center of a purple bruise bellow his collarbone. He slides them lower to another, bigger, darker one, just over his chest. His eyes meet Patrick’s in the mirror. “What the fuck, Kaner, I can’t go anywhere like this.”

“Boo-fuckin’-hoo, sweetheart.” Patrick says. Jonny clicks his tongue. His hand spreads over the blotched skin of his neck. He hasn’t even gotten sight of his back yet, Patrick thinks. That’ll make him throw a fit like a bitch. “You should’ve said something if you were planning on wearing your bikini this week.”

“Said something” Jonny repeats, deadpanned. “We’re not fuckin’ sixteen anymore, eh? I didn’t think I had to.”

This makes Patrick grin. He settles back into his pillow as Jonny grabs his toothbrush. “What can I say, baby?” Patrick murmurs. He hears the faucet run. “You make me feel so young. You make me feel as though spring has sprung.”

A pause. “Is that Justin Bieber?"

"Frank Sinatra, dude,  _Jesus_ ” Patrick says, and yawns. He’s allowed a comfortable quiet for a couple of seconds. Then Jonny starts brushing his teeth, muttering unintelligible shit around his toothbrush. He sounds like a fucking maniac, but it’s not unsettling. Just familiar.

Patrick turns his head to stare at the gap in the curtains they’d forgotten to close. Rain hits the window, sliding down the glass, blurring the dark grey of the city behind it. It’s been raining for hours.

This apartment feels strange to Patrick. An abstract version of something tangible. A shortcut out of reality, somewhere only they know, and yet neither can name. After Jonny moved out of Trump Tower Patrick had thought for sure he’d been chasing the white picket fence, the purposely unprotected sex. Maybe he’d get an actual fucking dog, instead of that embarrassment he carried around in a bag.  

Jonny did exactly none of those of things. Jonny did the _opposite_ of all of those things. His girl bought a house on the other side of Chicago and Jonny moved into the last two floors of a 30 story building. The dog’s in Winnipeg, because Andrée put her foot down and Jonny’s girl was smart enough not to push.

“I’m thirsty as hell.” Patrick says.

“Boo-fuckin’-hoo.” Jonny grunts mockingly, and spits into the sink. Patrick can’t help it, he laughs. His phone buzzes on the nightstand and he reaches for it. He doesn’t look at the phone right away, busy watching Jonny limp around the room, in nothing but his skintight Calvins, clearly searching for something on the floor. He picks up an empty lube bottle and holds it up for Patrick to see. Like Patrick just  _randomly_  decided to throw it there, for no reason whatsoever.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to piss Jonny off. Jonny makes a big show of dropping the bottle inside the trashcan in the corner. “Good job, bud.”

“So you’re a comedian this morning.” Jonny says.

“I’m always a comedian.” Patrick gives him a tight-lipped smile, his most annoying one, and looks down at his phone. “You just don’t appreciate my comedy.”

“That’s cus’ it’s not fuckin’ funny.”

Patrick ignores him. He draws his lower lip under his teeth and chews a little. His phone shows three missed calls, some unread texts, notifications he’s gotten used to ignore. His fingers type replies on autopilot. He’s not really thinking about what he’s saying, or who’s he’s saying it to.

He’s thinking about last night. He’s thinking about the pieces of glass scattered across the kitchen downstairs, the beer bottle that rolled down under some cabinet, his bag left somewhere in the hallway, and his jacket thrown across the floor of the corridor.

He’s thinking about what he felt. When Jonny held his face between his hands and just kissed him, kissed him over and over again, and Patrick had to stop fucking him just to breathe for a minute, because he could feel his heart thundering faster than a hummingbird’s.

The mattress dips. A finger presses right between his eyebrows.

“What’s that face for?” Jonny asks. The finger contours his temple and pokes him on the cheekbone. Patrick hits  _send_  on the text he’d been typing and sets the phone aside. He lets Jonny tilt his chin until he’s forced to look up. Patrick doesn’t know what to tell him, doesn’t know whether or not he owes Jonny explanations, especially when it comes to this. He endures Jonny’s scrutiny and lets his own eyes wander. Jonny’s laying on his stomach, propped up in his elbows, all hard lines and focused tension. Patrick only now notices the vivid red trails carved into his shoulders, the fingertips left on him like stamp marks.

The room would be silent as a tomb if it weren’t for the rain falling outside. Jonny stops poking him to rub the back of his fore finger against Patrick’s cheek. Even after everything that’s happened, the touch is almost unbearably intimate. “C’mon, tell me. I can hear those cogs turning.”

“Nah.” Patrick says.

“Why not?”

Instead of answering, Patrick brings his right thumb to the underside of Jonny’s jaw, where he’d dragged his teeth until the skin bruised. “Ka—” Jonny starts, but mutes the last syllable as Patrick pushes down his thumb, hard. Patrick puts his other hand on the back of Jonny’s neck and tugs him closer, just to feel how quickly Jonny goes along with it.

No resistance, no complaining. It’s always so easy for Jonny to let go of pretense. Patrick kicks back the sheets to the bottom of the bed until his body’s laid bare. The sudden chill gives him goosebumps all over. His hands fall around Jonny’s neck, fingers spread like he’s going to choke him. “You really wanna talk?” he asks, squeezing his fingers. “Or you wanna do something else?”

Jonny hiccups a breath. “We—we _should_ talk, Kaner.” he murmurs, voice low. He grabs a handful of Patrick’s hair, but he doesn’t pull. Staring down at Patrick, heavy lidded and breathing loudly, he looks disturbingly young. It’s like a camera flash of that uptight twenty year old kid that didn’t let them stay awake past nine pm and threw up in the middle of night out of anxiety.

Patrick’s overcome with too much. A lot of it paradoxical in its nature. His eyes fall shut and he hears himself exhale deeply through his nose. He wants to tell Jonny he’s a fucking NHL captain, a grown man, not some whore Patrick picked up behind a gas station. He wants to ask Jonny why, why he’d let anyone, let alone Patrick, bend him over like that. And why _now_ , and not before, when it made the slightest fucking sense.

He’s right, though. They should talk, but they’re not going to. Patrick knows this game. He feels fingers touch his lower lip, almost carefully, and his mouth stretches into a smile. “Pat.” Jonny grunts. Patrick opens his eyes, cheeks dimpling as he’s met with Jonny’s stupid face inches away from his. “I wanna go and bounce the moon” He sings. Jonny furrows his eyebrows, mouth opening like he’s going to ask, but Patrick doesn’t let him. “Just like a toy balloon.” he breathes out, barely a whisper, before craning his neck up to press their mouths together.

They’re gonna fuck again. Patrick realizes that as soon as he sits up against the headboard, licking his way past Jonny’s lips. Jonny’s mouth feels swollen, scorching hot, but he tastes like cold peppermint toothpaste. It’s odd. Addictive. That’s Jonny, though, Patrick thinks. An endless addiction of odd shit.

Patrick pulls him closer by the neck, swallowing his groans every time Patrick’s fingernails scratch a bruise. The sheets rustle loudly and the bed creaks as they move. He unclaws one of his hands from Jonny’s neck to snake an arm around his waist, and drag the palm of his hand down the delicious fucking curve of his ass.

“ _Fuck_ —wait, wait.” Jonny pants, leaning back. He’s halfway into straddling Patrick’s lap. His thighs tremble with the effort to keep them upright. “No, c’mon, we need to talk, Kaner, we—last night, that was—”

A phone rings. They both jump out of their skin. The sound is loud in the silence of the bedroom. It’s Jonny’s ringtone.  

“Jesus Christ.” Jonny mutters, looking behind him. “Where’s that fuckin’ thing?” Patrick shrugs in reflex, moving his hand to the side of Jonny’s face. He rubs his thumb against the red blotches on Jonny’s cheeks, tries to ignore the heavy weight of fondness that pulls down his chest. He’s about ninety nine percent sure Jonny took the phone to the bathroom with him, but he stays quiet. Jonny squirms in Patrick’s hands, trying to look around better. He’s flushed from the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingers. Patrick looks down at his dick, already tenting up his boxers. Saliva pools under Patrick’s tongue. Yeah. That’s what he wants.

The phone keeps ringing. It’s getting fucking annoying. Jonny grabs Patrick’s biceps, trying to push himself away. “C’mon, Peeks, I gotta answer that.” he says, and laughs. It’s a hollow laugh. Patrick watches his throat move and doesn’t budge. The smile slowly falls from Jonny’s face. “Patrick.”

The ringtone quits abruptly halfway through the fourth repetition. Patrick uses Jonny’s own hold of him to push him backwards until his back hits the mattress with a loud creak. “That could’ve been important, you—pushy fuck.” Jonny bitches, chest heaving, even as he spreads his knees so Patrick can settle between them. He looks mildly annoyed. It’s not lost on Patrick that he gets away with a lot of shit, particularly when it comes to pushing Jonny around. Granted, no one gets Jonny Toews underneath them unless Jonny Toews wants to be there. If he’s looking up at Patrick, it’s because he wants to.

“Oh, I’m sorry, cappy.” Patrick murmurs, letting Jonny take some of his weight so he can grind their dicks together in short, little thrusts. Jonny’s fingers twitch against Patrick’s arms, eyes softening around the edges. If it’s because of the movements or the endearment, Patrick doesn’t ask. “You wanna go call them back? _Mm_? You’re a big—” Patrick kisses his chin, the corner of his mouth, “—important man, after all, ain’t you?” His tongue goes down Jonny’s neck as Jonny’s hands go up Patrick’s back. Patrick does a particularly well placed thrust, teeth pressed into Jonny’s skin, and the jolt of pleasure is so fucking strong it makes his toes curl. Jonny makes a noise, too, a low, sweet raspy thing from the middle of his throat that Patrick feels from his lips to his tips of his ears. “Yeah, you are.” Patrick croaks. He’s kind of out of it. Jonny makes him stupid.

“Fuckin’ shut up, Christ.” Jonny mumbles, just as eloquent. He scratches at the muscles of Patrick’s back until Patrick gets the hint and rises to kiss him on the mouth again. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and grind together, and Patrick can’t drag his hands through all of Jonny at once but goddamn if he won’t try. He’s already hard, already desperate, just from a little dry-humping, like he’s a fucking teenager or something. (Except, well, that’s not right, because Patrick doesn’t remember ever being like this when he was a kid. Nothing has ever felt like this.)

They stop to breathe, their bodies already slick with sweat, hearts hammering against each other’s chests, and Patrick thinks, _nothing_ _can even compare._ He opens his eyes to find Jonny smiling at him. And his best smile, too. Crooked and red, almost too boyish for a man his age. That’s it. There it is. The smile that got Patrick wondering if Heaven was a feeling, not a place.

“Compare to what?” Jonny asks, still smiling. He sounds wrecked. Patrick’s too busy sliding down the mattress to process the question. He puts his mouth on the hard jut of Jonny’s hipbone and pretends it isn’t as intoxicating to hear him choke back Patrick’s name as it was the very first time. “Pat— _Peeks_. Compare to—”

“Didn’t you want me to shut up?” Patrick interrupts, matter-of-factly, nosing the few hairs Jonny allows his happy trail to grow. He slides his fingers under the elastic band of Jonny’s boxers and stretches it off Jonny’s skin just enough for it to whip back when he lets go. He can feel the head of Jonny’s dick twitch against his throat, even through the cotton. Jonny’s quiet, now. Patrick listens to him swallow in dry.

“Yeah, okay, Pat.” He murmurs after a moment. “Okay.”

There’s a hand on the back of Patrick's head. It grabs a handful of his hair, but doesn’t pull. It never pulls. The touch is familiar, grounding. It slows everything down. Patrick’s desperate to put Jonny’s dick down his throat but he’s not thinking about what that means anymore. The implications, the shame, the sin, none of that matters, because there’s only Patrick, and that hand, and the man attached to that hand, and nothing else. Freedom isn’t real, but this is. _This_ , Patrick thinks, drawing out Jonny’s dick before swallowing it down, _is what fucking freedom tastes like._

**Author's Note:**

> I'll keep re-writing this and none of you can stop me  
> title from "you make me feel so young" by frank sinatra


End file.
